The Kings Daughters by Emily Sarah Holt

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Title: The King's Daughters

Author: Emily Sarah Holt

Release Date: October 20, 2007 [EBook #23120]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KING'S DAUGHTERS ***

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

Emily Sarah Holt

"The King's Daughters"

Chapter One.

Choosing a new gown.

“Give you good den, Master Clere!” said a rosy-faced countrywoman with a basket on her arm, as she
came into one of the largest clothier’s shops in Colchester. It was an odd way of saying “Good
Evening,” but this was the way in which they said it in 1556. The rosy-faced woman set down her
basket on the counter, and looked round the shop in the leisurely way of somebody who was in no
particular hurry. They did not dash and rush and scurry through their lives in those days, as we do in
these. She was looking to see if any acquaintance of hers was there. As she found nobody she went
to business. “Could you let a body see a piece of kersey, think you? I’d fain have a brown or a good
dark murrey ’d serve me—somewhat that should not show dirt, and may be trusted to wear well.—
Good den, Mistress Clere!—Have you e’er a piece o’ kersey like that?”

Master Nicholas Clere, who stood behind the counter, did not move a finger. He was a tall, big man,
and he rested both hands on his counter, and looked his customer in the face. He was not a man
whom people liked much, for he was rather queer-tempered, and as Mistress Clere was wont to
remark, “a bit easier put out than in.” A man of few words, but those were often pungent, was
Nicholas Clere.

“What price?” said he.

“Well! you mustn’t ask me five shillings a yard,” said the rosy-faced woman, with a little laugh. That
was the price of the very best and finest kersey.

“Shouldn’t think o’ doing,” answered the clothier.

“Come, you know the sort as ’ill serve me. Shilling a yard at best. If you’ve any at eightpence—”

“Haven’t.”

“Well, then I reckon I must go a bit higher.”

“We’ve as good a kersey at elevenpence,” broke in Mrs Clere, “as you’d wish to see, Alice Mount, of a
summer day. A good brown, belike, and not one as ’ll fade—and a fine thread—for the price, you
know. You don’t look for kersey at elevenpence to be even with that at half-a-crown, now, do you?
but you’ll never repent buying this, I promise you.”

Mrs Clere was not by any means a woman of few words. W hile she was talking her husband had taken
down the kersey, and opened it out upon the counter.

“There!” said he gruffly: “take it or leave it.”

There were two other women in the shop, to whom Mrs Clere was showing some coarse black
stockings: they looked like mother and daughter. W hile Alice Mount was looking at the kersey, the
younger of these two said to the other—

“Isn’t that Alice Mount of Bentley?—she that was had to London last August by the Sheriffs for
heresy, with a main lot more?”

“Ay, ’tis she,” answered the mother in an undertone.

“Twenty-three of them, weren’t there?”

“Thereabouts. They stood to it awhile, if you mind, and then they made some fashion of submission,
and got let off.”

“So they did, but I mind Master Maynard said it was but a sorry sort. He wouldn’t have taken it, quoth
he.”

The other woman laughed slightly. “Truly, I believe that, if he had a chance to lay hold on ’em else.
He loves bringing folk to book, and prison too.”

“There’s Margaret Thurston coming across,” said the younger woman, after a moment’s pause. “I
rather guess she means to turn in here.”

W hen people say “I guess” now, we set them down at once as Americans; but in 1556 everybody in
England said it. Our American cousins have kept many an old word and expression which we have
lost. See Note Two.

In another minute a woman came in who was a strong contrast to Alice Mount. Instead of being
small, round, and rosy, she was tall and spare, and very pale, as if she might have been ill not long
before. She too carried a basket, but though it was only about half as large as Alice’s, it seemed to
try her strength much more.

“Good den, neighbour!” said Alice, with a pleasant smile.

“Good den, Alice. I looked not to find you here. What come you after?”

“A piece of kersey for my bettermost gown this summer. What seek you?”

“Well, I want some linsey for mine. Go you on, and when you’ve made an end I’ll ask good Master
Clere to show me some, without Mistress Clere’s at liberty sooner.”

Alice Mount was soon satisfied. She bought ten yards of the brown kersey, with some black buckram
to line it, and then, as those will who have time to spare, and not much to occupy their thoughts, she
turned her attention to helping Margaret Thurston to choose her gown. But it was soon seen that
Margaret was not an easy woman to satisfy. She would have striped linsey; no, she wouldn’t, she
would have a self colour; no, she wouldn’t, she would have a little pattern; lastly, she did not know
which to have! What did Master Clere think? or what would Alice recommend her?

Master Clere calmly declined to think anything about it.

“Take it or leave it,” said he. “You’ll have to do one or t’other. Might as well do it first as last.”

Margaret turned from one piece to another with a hopelessly perplexed face. There were three lying
before her; a plain brown, a very dark green with a pretty little pattern, and a delicate grey, striped
with a darker shade of the same colour.

“Brown’s usefullest, maybe,” said she in an uncertain tone. “Green’s none so bad, though. And that
grey’s proper pretty—it is a gentlewoman’s gown. I’d like that grey.”

The grey was undoubtedly ladylike, but it was only fit for a lady, not for a working man’s wife who
had cooking and cleaning to do. A week of such work would ruin it past repair.

“You have the brown, neighbour,” said Alice. “It’s not the prettiest, maybe, but it ’ll look the best
when it’s been used a while. That grey ’ll never stand nought; and the green, though it’s better, ’ll
not wear even to the brown. You have the brown now.”

Still Margaret was undecided. She appealed to Mrs Clere.

“W hy, look you,” responded that talkative lady, “if you have yonder green gown, you can don it of an
even when your master comes home from work, and he’ll be main pleased to see you a-sitting in the

cottage door with your bit o’ needlework, in a pretty green gown.”

“Ay, so he will!” said Margaret, suddenly making up as much mind as she had. “I thank you Mistress
Clere. I’ll have the green, Master Clere, an’ it please you.”

Now, Alice Mount had offered a reason for choosing the brown dress, and Mrs Clere had only drawn a
picture; but Margaret was the sort of woman to be influenced by a picture much more than by a solid
reason. So the green linsey was cut off and rolled up—not in paper: that was much too precious to be
wasted on parcels of common things. It was only tied with string, and each woman taking her own
package, the two friends were about to leave the shop, when it occurred to Mrs Mount to ask a
question.

“So you’ve got Bessy Foulkes at last, Mistress Clere?”

“Ay, we have, Alice,” was the answer. “And you might have said, ‘at long last,’ trow. Never saw a
maid so hard to come by. I could have got twenty as good maids as she to hire themselves, while
Bess was thinking on it.”

“She should be worth somewhat, now you have her, if she took such work to come by,” observed
Margaret Thurston.

“Oh, well, she’ll do middling. She’s a stirring maid over her work: but she’s mortal quiet, she is. Not a
word can you get out of her without ’tis needed. And for a young maid of nineteen, you know, that’s
strange fashions.”

“Humph!” said Master Nicholas, rolling up some woollen handkerchiefs. “The world ’d do with another
or twain of that fashion.”

“Now, Nicholas, you can’t say you get too much talk!” exclaimed his wife turning round. “W hy Amy
and me, we’re as quiet as a couple of mice from morning till night. Aren’t we now?”

“Can’t I?” said Nicholas, depositing the handkerchiefs on a shelf.

“Well, any way, you’ve got no call to it. Nobody can say I talk too much, that I know: nor yet Amy.”

“You know, do you?” said her husband coolly. “Well, then, I need not to say it.”

“Now, neighbours, isn’t that too bad?” demanded Mrs Clere, as Nicholas moved away to attend to
another customer. “I never was a rattle, not I. But ’tis right like men: they take in their heads that all
women be talkers, and be as still as you will, they shall write you down a chatterbox. Well, now, can’t
I tempt you with nought more? Stockings, or kerchiefs, or a knitted cap? Well, then, good den. I don’t
so well like the look of them clouds yonder; we shall have rain afore night, take my word for it.
Farewell!”

Mulberry-colour, much like that we call plum-colour or prune.

Note 2. They say, “I want to have you go,” when we should say, “I want you, to go.” Queen Elizabeth
would have used the former expression.

Chapter Two.

Who took care of Cissy?

The clothier’s shop which we entered in the last chapter was in Balcon or Balkerne Lane, not far from
its northern end. The house was built, as most houses then were, with the upper storey projecting
beyond the lower, and with a good deal of window in proportion to the wall. The panes of glass were
very small, set in lead, and of a greenish hue; and the top of the house presented two rather steeply
sloped gables. Houses in that day were more picturesque than they have been for the last two
hundred years, though they have shown a tendency in recent times to turn again in that direction.
Over Master Clere’s door—and over every door in the street—hung a signboard, on which some sign
was painted, each different from the rest, for signs then served the purpose of numbers, so that two
alike in the same street would have caused confusion. As far as eye could see ran the gaily-painted
boards—Blue Lion, varied by red, black, white, and golden lions; W hite Hart, King’s Head, Golden
Hand, Vine, W heelbarrow, Star, Cardinal’s Hat, Crosskeys, Rose, Magpie, Saracen’s Head, and
Katherine W heel. Master Nicholas Clere hung out a magpie: why, he best knew, and never told. His
neighbours sarcastically said that it was because a magpie lived there, meaning Mistress Clere, who
was considered a chatterbox by everybody except herself.

Our two friends, Margaret Thurston and Alice Mount, left the shop together, with their baskets on
their arms, and turning down a narrow lane to the left, came out into High Street, down which they
went, then along Wye Street, and out at Bothal’s Gate. They did not live in Colchester, but at Much

Bentley, about eight miles from the town, in a south-easterly direction.

“I marvel,” said Margaret, as the two pursued their way across the heath, “how Bessy Foulkes shall
make way with them twain.”

“Do you so?” answered Alice. “Truly, I marvel more how she shall make way with the third.”

“What, Mistress Amy?”

Alice nodded.

“But why? There’s no harm in her, trow?”

“She means no harm,” said Alice. “But there’s many an one, Meg, as doesn’t mean a bit of harm, and
does a deal for all that. I’m feared for Bessy.”

“But I can’t see what you’re feared for.”

“These be times for fear,” said Alice Mount. “Neighbour, have you forgot last August?”

“Eh! no, trust me!” cried Margaret. “Didn’t I quake for fear, when my master came in, and told me you
were taken afore the justices! Truly, I reckoned he and I should come the next. I thank the good Lord
that stayed their hands!”

“’Tis well we be on the Heath,” said Alice, glancing round, as if to see whether they could be
overheard. “If we spake thus in the streets of Colchester, neighbour, it should cost us dear.”

“Well, I do hate to be so careful!”

“Folks cannot have alway what they would,” said Alice, “But you know, neighbour, Bessy Foulkes is
one of us.”

“Well, what then? So’s Master Clere.”

Alice made no answer.

“What mean you, Alice Mount? Master Clere’s a Gospeller, and has been this eight years or more.”

“I did not gainsay it, Meg.”

“Nay, you might not gainsay it, but you looked as if you would if you opened your mouth.”

“Well, neighbour, my brother at Stoke Nayland sells a horse by nows and thens: and the last time I
was yonder, a gentleman came to buy one. There was a right pretty black one, and a bay not quite so
well-looking. Says the gentleman to Gregory, ‘I’d fainer have the black, so far as looks go; but which
is the better horse?’ Quoth Gregory, ‘Well, Master, that hangs on what you mean to do with him. If
you look for him to make a pretty picture in your park, and now and then to carry you four or five mile,
why, he’ll do it as well as e’er a one; but if you want him for good, stiff work, you’d best have the
bay. The black’s got no stay in him,’ saith he. So, Meg, that’s what I think of Master Clere—he’s got
no stay in him. I doubt he’s but one of your fair-weathered folks, that’ll side with Truth when she
steps bravely forth in her satin gown and her velvet slippers; but when she comes in a threadbare
gown and old clouted shoes, then she’s not for their company. There’s a many of that sort.”

“And you think Master Clere’s one?” said Margaret, in a tone which sounded as if she did not think so.

“I’m feared he is. I’d not say it if there wasn’t need. But if you see Bess afore I do—and you are more
like, for you go into town oftener—do drop a word to her to be prudent.”

“Tell Elizabeth Foulkes to be prudent!” exclaimed Margaret, laughing. “Nay, that were carrying coals to
Newcastle!”

“Well, and the day may come for that, if the pits there be used up. Meg, have you ne’er noted that
folks oftener come to trouble for want of their chief virtue than from overdoing it?”

“Nay, Alice, nor I don’t think it, neither.”

“Well, let be!” said Alice, shifting the basket to her other arm. “Them that lives ’ll see it.”

“But what mean you touching Mistress Amy! You said you were feared she’d make trouble for Bess.”

“Ay, I am: but that’s another matter. We’ve fault-found enough for one even. W ho be them two afore
us?”

“What, those bits of children? Why, they’re two of Jack Johnson’s, of Thorpe.”

“They look as if they’d got too much to carry,” said Alice, as they came up to the children. They were
now about half way to Bentley.

The younger, a boy of about six, held one ear of a large jar full of meal, and the other was carried by
his sister, whose apparent age was eight. They were plodding slowly along, as if afraid of spilling
their meal, for the jar was pretty full.

“Well, Cis, thou hast there a load!” was Margaret’s greeting.

The little girl turned her head to see who spoke, but she only said gravely, “Ay.” A very grave, demure
little maiden she seemed to be.

“Whither go you?” asked Alice Mount.

“We’re going home,” said the small boy.

“W hat, a matter of five miles, with that jar? W hy, you’ll drop in the road! Couldn’t nobody have
fetched it but you?”

“There wasn’t nobody,” said the little boy; and his sister looked up to say, in her grave way,—

“You know Mother’s gone to Heaven.”

“And who looks after you?”

“Will looks after Baby,” answered Cissy demurely, “and I look after Will.”

“And who looks after thee?” asked Alice much amused.

“I’m older than I look,” replied Cissy, drawing herself up; but she was not big enough to go far.

“I’m nine—going in ten. I can make porridge, and clean the room and wash Baby. And W ill’s learning
to wash himself, and then he’ll be off my hands.”

It was irresistibly funny to hear this small mite talk like a woman, for she was very small of her age;
and Alice and Margaret could not help laughing.

“Well, but thou knowest thou canst not do a many things that must be done. W ho takes care of you
all? I dare be bound thou does thy best: but somebody there must be older than thee. W ho is it
now?”

“Have you e’er an aunt or a grandmother?” added Margaret.

Cissy looked up quietly into Alice’s face.

“God takes care of us,” she said. “Father helps when his work’s done; but when he’s at work, God has
to do it all. There’s nobody but God.”

Alice and Margaret looked at each other in astonishment.

“Poor little souls!” cried Margaret.

“Oh, but we aren’t!” said Cissy, rather more eagerly. “God looks after us, you know. He’s sure to do it
right, Father says so.”

Alice Mount laid her hand softly on Cissy’s head.

“Ay, little maid, God will do it right,” she said. “But maybe He’d let me help too, by nows and thens.
Thou knowest the Black Bear at Much Bentley—corner of lane going down to Thorpe?”

Yes, Cissy knew the Black Bear, as her face showed.

“Well, when thou gets to the Black Bear, count three doors down the lane, and thou’lt see a sign with
a bell. That’s where I live. Thee rap at the door, and my daughter shall go along with you to Thorpe,
and help to carry the meal too. Maybe we can find you a sup of broth or milk while you rest you a bit.”

“Oh, thank you!” said Cissy in her grown-up way. “That will be good. We’ll come.”

Chapter Three.

Rose.

“Poor little souls!” repeated Margaret Thurston, when the children were out of hearing.

Alice Mount looked back, and saw the small pair still toiling slowly on, the big jar between them. It
would not have been a large jar for her to carry, but it was large and heavy too for such little things
as these.

“However will they get home!” said she. “Nobody to look after them but ‘God and Father’!”

The moment she had said it, her heart smote her. Was that not enough? If the Lord cared for these
little ones, did it matter who was against them? How many unseen angels might there be on that
road, watching over the safety of the children, and of that homely jar of meal for their sakes? It was
not the first time that angels had attended to springs of water and cakes baken on the coals. No
angel would dream of stopping to think whether such work degraded him. It is only men who stoop
low enough for that. The highest work possible to men or angels is just doing the will of God: and
God was the Father of these little ones.

“What is their Father?” asked Alice Mount.

“Johnson? Oh, he is a labouring man—a youngish man, only four-and-thirty: his mistress died a
matter of six months back, and truly I know not how those bits of children have done since.”

“They have had ‘God and Father,’” said Alice “Well, I’ve no doubt he’s a good father,” answered
Margaret. “John Johnson is as good a man as ever stepped, I’ll say that for him: and so was Helen a
rare good woman. I knew her well when we were maids together. Those children have been well
fetched up, take my word for it.”

“It must have been a sad matter to lose such a wife,” said Alice.

“Well, what think you?” answered Margaret, dropping her voice. “Agnes Love told me—Jack Love’s
wife, that dwells on the Heath—you’ll maybe know her?”

“Ay, I know her, though not well.”

“I’ve known her ever since she was a yard long. Well, she told me, the even it happed came Jack
Johnson to their house, and when she oped the door, she was fair feared of him, he looked so strange
—his face all white, and such a glitter of his eyes—she marvelled what had taken him. And says he,
‘Agnes, my Helen’s gone.’ ‘Gone? oh dear!’ says she. ‘Ay, she’s gone, thank God!’ says he. Well,
Agnes thought this right strange talk, and says she, ‘Jack Johnson, what can you mean? Never was a
better woman than your Helen, and you thanking God you’ve lost her!’ ‘Nay, Agnes, could you think
that?’ says he. ‘I’m thanking God because now I shall never see her stand up on the waste by Lexden
Road,’ says he. ‘She’s safe from that anguish for evermore!’ And you know what that meant.”

Yes, Alice Mount knew what that meant—that allusion to the waste ground by Colchester town wall
on the road to Lexden, where the citizens shot their rubbish, and buried their dead animals, or threw
them unburied, and burned their martyrs. It was another way of saying what the Voice from Heaven
had cried to the Apostle—“Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord from henceforth!”

“It’s a marvel they haven’t done somewhat to them Loves afore now,” said Margaret, after a minute’s
silence.

“I thought they had?” replied Alice. “Wasn’t John Love up afore the Sheriff once at any rate?”

“Oh, ay, they’ve had him twice o’er; don’t you mind they gat them away in the night the last time,
and all his goods was taken to the Queen’s use? But now, see, he’s come back, and they let him
alone. They’ve done all they mean to do, I reckon.”

“God grant it!” said Alice, with a sigh. “Meg, I cannot forget last August. Twenty-two of us had up
afore the Bishop, and we only escaped by the very skin of our teeth, as saith Job. Ay me! I
sometimes marvel if we did well or no, when we writ our names to that submission.”

“Truly, neighbour, so have I,” replied Margaret rather bluntly. “I would not have set mine thereto, I
warrant you.”

Alice sighed heavily. “God knoweth we meant not to deny His truth,” said she; “and He looketh on the
heart.”

After that they were silent till they came to Much Bentley. Turning down the lane which led to Thorpe,
they came in sight of a girl of twenty years, sitting on a low stool at the door of the third cottage in
the lane, weaving worsted lace on a pillow with bobbins. Over the door hung a signboard bearing a
bell painted blue. The lace-maker was a small-built girl, not in any way remarkable to look at, with
smooth dark hair, nicely kept, and a rosy face with no beauty about it, but with a bright, kind-hearted
expression which was better than outside beauty. If a person accustomed to read faces had been
there, he might perhaps have said that the small prominent chin, and the firm setting of the lips,
suggested that Rose Allen occasionally had a will of her own. The moment that Rose saw who was
coming, she left her stool with a bright smile which lighted up all her face, and carrying the stool in
one hand, and her lace pillow in the other, disappeared within the house.

“She’s quick at her work, yonder maid,” said Margaret.

“Ay, she’s a good lass, my Rose!” was her mother’s answer. “You’ll come in and sit a bit, neighbour?”

“Well, thank you, I don’t mind if I do—at any rate till them children comes up,” responded Margaret,
with a little laugh. “Will you have me while then?”

“Ay, and as long after as you’ve a mind,” said Alice heartily, leading the way into her cottage.

As Margaret had a mile yet to walk, for she lived midway between Much Bentley and Thorpe, she was
glad of a rest. In the kitchen they found Rose, very busy with a skillet over the fire. There was no tea
in those days, so there was no putting on of the kettle: and Rose was preparing for supper a dish of
boiled cabbage, to which the only additions would be bread and cheese. In reply to her mother’s
questions, she said that her step-father had been in, but finding his wife not yet come from market,
he had said that he would step into the next neighbour’s until she came, and Rose was to call him
when supper was ready.

W illiam Mount, the second husband of Alice, was twenty years older than his wife, their ages being
sixty-one and forty-one. He was a tall, grey, grave-looking man,—a field labourer, like most of the
dwellers in Much Bentley. This was but a small place, nestling at one corner of the large park of the
Earl of Oxford, the owner of all the property for some distance round. Of course he was the great man
in the esteem of the Much Bentley people. During the reign of Edward the Sixth, when Protestantism
was in favour at Court, Lord Oxford had been a Protestant like other people; but, also like many other
people, he was one of those of whom it has been well said that:

“He’s a slave who dare not be
In the right with two or three.”

Lord Oxford was a slave in this sense—a slave to what other people said and thought about him—and
very sad slavery it is. I would rather sweep a crossing than feel that I did not dare to say what I
believed or disbelieved, what I liked or did not like, because other people would think it strange. It is
as bad as being in Egyptian bondage. Yet there are a great many people quite contented to be slaves
of this kind, who have not half so much excuse as Lord Oxford. If he went against the priests, who
then were masters of everything, he was likely to lose his liberty and property, if not his life; while
we may say any thing we like without need to be afraid. It is not always an advantage to have a
great deal to lose. The poor labourers of Much Bentley, who had next to no property at all, and could
only lose liberty and life, were far braver than the Earl whom they thought such a grand man, and who
carried a golden wand before the Queen.

Supper was over at the Blue Bell, and Margaret Thurston was thinking about going home, when a
little faint rap came on the door of the cottage. Rose opened it, and saw a big jar standing on the
door-sill, a little boy sitting beside it, and an older girl leaning against the wall.

“Please, we’re come,” said Cissy.

Chapter Four.

On the way to Thorpe.

“Please, we’re come,” said Cissy. “We’ve been a good while getting here, but we— Oh, it isn’t you!”

“W hat isn’t me?” said Rose, laughing—for people said me where it should have been I, then, as they
do still. “I rather think it is me; don’t you?”

“Yes, but you are not she that spake to us on the road,” said Cissy. “Somebody told us to call here as
we went down the lane, and her daughter should go home with us, and help us to carry the big jar.
Perhaps you’re the daughter?”

“Well, I guess I am,” answered Rose. “Where’s home?”

“It’s at the further end of Thorpe.”

“All right. Come in and rest you, and I’ll fetch a sup of something to do you good, poor little white
faces.”

Rose took a hand of each and led them forward.

“Mother, here be two bits of Maypoles,” said she, “for they be scarce fatter; and two handfuls of
snow, for they be scarce rosier—that say you promised them that I should go home with them and
bear their jar of meal.”

“So I did, Rose. Bring them in, and let them warm themselves,” answered Mrs Mount. “Give them a

sup of broth or what we have, to put a bit of life in them; and at after thou shalt bear them company
to Thorpe. Poor little souls! they have no mother, and they say God looks after them only.”

“Then I shall be in His company too,” said Rose softly. Then, dropping her voice that the children
might not hear, she added, “Mother, there’s only that drop of broth you set aside for breakfast; and
it’s scarce enough for you and father both. Must I give them that?”

Alice Mount thought a moment. She had spoken before almost without thinking.

“Daughter,” she said, “if their Father, which is also ours, had come with them visible to our eyes, we
should bring forth our best for Him; and He will look for us to do it for the little ones whose angels
see His Face. Ay, fetch the broth, Rose.”

Perhaps Cissy had overheard a few words, for wheel the bowl of broth was put into her hands, she
said, “Can you spare it? Didn’t you want it for something else than us?”

“We can spare it, little maid,” said Alice, with a smile.

“Sup it up,” added Rose, laying her hand on the child’s shoulder; “and much good may it do thee!
Then, when you are both warmed and rested, I’ll set forth with you.”

Cissy did not allow that to be long. She drank her broth, admonished W ill by a look to finish his—for
he was disposed to loiter,—and after sitting still for a few minutes, rose and put down the bowl.

“We return you many thanks,” she said in her prim little way, “and I think, if you please, we ought to
go home. Father ’ll be back by the time we get there; and I don’t like to be away when he comes.
Mother bade me not. She said he’d miss her worse if he didn’t find me. You see, I’ve got to do for
Mother now, both for Father and the children.”

Alice Mount thought it very funny to hear this little mite talking about “the children,” as if she were
not a child at all.

“Well, tarry a minute till I tie on my hood,” said Rose. “I’ll be ready before you can say, ‘This is the
house that Jack built.’”

“What do you with the babe, little maid, when you go forth?” asked Alice.

“Baby?” said Cissy, looking up. “Oh, we leave her with Ursula Felstede, next door. She’s quite safe till
we come back.”

Rose now came in from the inner room, where she had been putting on her hood and mantle. There
were no bonnets then. W hat women called bonnets in those days were close thick hoods, made of
silk, velvet, fur, or woollen stuff of some sort. Nor had they either shawls or jackets—only loose
mantles, for out-door wear. Rose took up the jar of meal.

“Please, I can carry it on one side,” said Cissy rather eagerly.

“Thou mayest carry thyself,” said Rose. “That’s plenty. I haven’t walked five miles to-day. I’m a bit
stronger than thou, too.”

Little W ill had not needed telling that he was no longer wanted to carry the jar; he was already off
after wild flowers, as if the past five miles had been as many yards, though he had assured Cissy at
least a dozen times as they came along that he did not know how he was ever to get home, and as
they were entering Bentley had declared himself unable to take another step. Cissy shook her small
head with the air of a prophetess.

“W ill shouldn’t say such things!” said she. “He said he couldn’t walk a bit further—that I should have
to carry him as well as the jar—and I don’t know how I could, unless I’d poured the meal out and put
him in, and he’d never have gone, I’m sure; and now, do but look at him after those buttercups!”

“He didn’t mean to tell falsehoods,” said Rose. “He was tired, I dare say. Lads will be lads, thou
knowest.”

“Oh dear, I don’t know how I’m to bring up these children to be good people!” said Cissy, as gravely
as if she had been their grandmother. “Ursula says children are great troubles, and I’m sure it’s true.
If there’s any place where W ill should be, that’s just where he always isn’t; and if there’s one spot
where he shouldn’t be, that’s the place where you commonly find him. Baby can’t walk yet, so she’s
safe; but whatever I shall do when she can, I’m sure I don’t know! I can’t be in all the places at once
where two of them shouldn’t be.”

Rose could not help laughing.

“Little maid,” she said kindly, “thy small shoulders will never hold the world, nor even thy father’s
cottage. Hast thou forgot what thou saidst not an half-hour gone, that God takes care of you all?”

“Oh yes, He takes big care of us,” was Cissy’s answer. “He’ll see that we have meat and clothes and
so forth, and that Father gets work. But He’ll hardly keep W ill and Baby out of mischief, will He? Isn’t
that too little for Him?”

“The whole world is but a speck, little Cicely, compared with Him. If He will humble Himself to see
thee and me at all, I reckon He is as like to keep W ill out of mischief as to keep him alive. It is the
very greatness of God that He can attend to all the little things in the world at once. They are all
little things to Him. Hast thou not heard that the Lord Jesus said the very hairs of our heads be
numbered?”

“Yea, Sir Thomas read that one eve at Ursula’s.”

Sir Thomas Tye was the Vicar of Much Bentley.

“Well,” said Rose, “and isn’t it of more importance to make W ill a good lad than to know how many
hairs he’s got on his head? Wouldn’t thy father think so?”

“For sure he would,” said Cissy earnestly.

“And isn’t God thy Father?”

Just as Rose asked that, a tall, dark figure turned out of a lane they were passing, and joined them.
It was growing dusk, but Rose recognised the Vicar of whom they had just been speaking. Most
priests were called “Sir” in those days.

“Christ bless you, my children!” said the Vicar.

Both Rose and Cissy made low courtesies, for great respect was then paid to a clergyman. They called
them priests, for very few could read the Bible, which tells us that the only priest is our Lord Jesus
Christ. A priest does not mean the same thing as a clergyman, though too many people thoughtlessly
speak as if it did. A priest is a man who offers a sacrifice of some living thing to God. So, as Jesus
Christ, who offered Himself, is our sacrifice, and there can never be any other, there cannot be any
priests now. There are a great many texts which tell us this, but I will only mention one, which you
can look out in your Bibles and learn by heart: the tenth verse of the tenth chapter of the Epistle to
the Hebrews. It is easy to remember two tens.

Cissy was a little frightened when she saw that Sir Thomas walked on with them; but Rose marched
on as if she did not care whether he came or not. For about a year after Queen Mary’s accession Sir
Thomas had come pretty regularly to the prayer-meetings which were held sometimes at the Blue
Bell, and sometimes at Ursula Felstede’s at Thorpe, and also sometimes at John Love’s on the Heath.
He often read the Bible to them, and gave them little sermons, and seemed as kind and pleasant as
possible. But when Queen Mary had been about a year on the throne, and it could be plainly seen
which way things were going—that is, that she would try to bring back the Popish religion which her
brother had cast off—Sir Thomas began to come less often. He found it too far to John Love’s and to
Thorpe; and whenever the meeting was at the Blue Bell, which was only a few hundred yards from the
Vicarage,—well, it certainly was odd that Sir Thomas was always poorly on that night. Still, nobody
liked to think that he was making believe; but Alice Mount said so openly, and Rose had heard her.

Chapter Five.

In difficulties.

Cissy Johnson was not old enough to understand all the reasons why her father distrusted the priest;
but she knew well that “Father didn’t like him,” and like the dutiful little girl she was, she was
resolved not to make a friend of any one whom her father disliked, for she knew that he might have
good reasons which she could not understand. But Cissy had been taught to be civil to everybody,
and respectful to her betters—lessons of which a little more would not hurt some folks in the present
day. People make a great mistake who think that you cannot both be respectful to others and
independent for yourself. The Bible teaches us to do both. Being in this state of mind, Cissy was
decidedly pleased to see her father coming up from the other end of the lane.

“Oh, here’s Father!” she said to Rose; and little Will ran on joyfully to meet him.

“Well, my lad!” was Johnson’s greeting to his boy. “So thou and Cissy have got back? It’s a right long
way for such as thou.”

Little Will suddenly remembered that he was exceedingly tired, and said so.

“Thou’d better go to bed,” said her father, as they came up with the girls. “Well, Cis, who hast thou
picked up?—I’m right thankful to you,” he added, looking at Rose, “for giving my little maid a helping
hand. It’s a long way for such little ones, all the way from the Heath, and a heavy load for little arms,
and I’m main thankful. Will you come in a bit and rest you?” he said to Rose.

But Rose declined, for she knew her mother would expect her to come back at once. She kissed Cissy,
and told her, whenever she had a load to carry either way, to be sure she looked in at the Blue Bell,
when Rose would help her if she possibly could: and giving the jar to Johnson, she bade him good-
night, and turned back up the lane. Sir Thomas had walked on, as Rose supposed: at any rate, he
was not to be seen. She went nearly a mile without seeing any one, until Margaret Thurston’s cottage
came in sight. As Rose began to go a little more slowly, she heard footsteps behind her, and the next
minute she was joined—to her surprise—by the priest.

“My daughter,” he said, in a soft, kind voice, “I think thou art Rose Allen?”

Rose dropped a courtesy, and said she was.

“I have been wishful to speak with some of thy father’s household,” said Sir Thomas, in the same
gentle way: “so that I am fain to meet thee forth this even. Tell me, my child, is there illness in the
house or no?”

Rose breathed quickly: she guessed pretty well what was coming.

“No, Father,” she answered; “we are all in good health, God be thanked for that same.”

“Truly. I am glad to hear thee so speak, my daughter, and in especial that thou rememberest to thank
God. But wherefore, then, being in good health, have ye not come to give thanks to God in His own
house, these eight Sundays past? Ye have been regular aforetime, since ye were back from the
Bishop’s Court. Surely it is not true—I do hope and trust it is not true, that ye be slipping yet again
into your past evil ways of ill opinions and presumptuous sin?”

The reason why the Mounts had not been to church was because the services were such as they could
no longer join in. Queen Mary had brought back the Popish mass, and all the images which King
Edward had done away with; so that to go to church was not to worship God but to worship idols. And
so terrible was the persecution Mary had allowed to be set up, that the penalty for refusing to do this
was to be burnt to death for what she called heresy.

It was a terrible position for a young girl in which Rose Allen stood that night. This man not only held
her life in his hands, but also those of her mother and her step-father. If he chose to inform against
them, the end of it might be death by fire. For one moment Rose was silent, during which she cried
silently but most earnestly to God for wisdom and courage—wisdom to keep her from saying what
might bring them into needless danger, and courage to stand true and firm to God and His truth.

“Might I be so bold as to pray you, Father,” she said at last, “to ask at my mother the cause of such
absence from mass? You wot I am but a young maid, and under direction of mine elders.”

Sir Thomas Tye smiled to himself. He thought Rose a very cautious, prudent girl, who did not want to
bring herself into trouble.

“So be it, my daughter,” said he in the same gentle way. “Doubtless it was by direction of thine
elders that then wert absent aforetime, ere ye were had up to the Bishop.”

He meant it as a question, by which he hoped to entangle poor Rose. She was wise enough not to
answer, but to let it pass as if he were merely giving his own opinion, about which she did not wish
to say anything.

“Crafty girl!” thought Sir Thomas. Then he said aloud,—“The festival of our Lady cometh on apace: ye
will surely have some little present for our blessed Lady?”

The Virgin Mary was then called “Our Lady.”

“We be but poor folks,” said Rose. “Truly, I know ye be poor folks,” was the priest’s reply. “Yet even
poor folks do oft contrive to pleasure their friends by some little present. And if ye might bring no
more than an handful of daisies from the field, yet is our Lady so gracious that she will deign to
accept even so small an offering. Ye need not be empty-handed.”

“I trust we shall do our duty,” said poor Rose, in great perplexity. “Father, I cry you mercy if I stay me
here, for I would fain speak with the woman of this cot.”

“So do, my daughter,” was the soft reply, “and I will call here belike, for I do desire to speak with
Thurston.” Poor Rose was at her wit’s end. Her little manoeuvre had not succeeded as she hoped. She
wanted to be rid of the unwelcome company of the priest; and now it seemed as if, by calling on
Margaret Thurston instead of going straight home, she would only get more of it. However, she must
do it now. She had nothing particular to say to Margaret, whom she had already seen that day,
though her mother had said after Margaret was gone, that she wished she had told her something,
and Rose meant to use this remark as furnishing an excuse.

She tapped, lifted the latch, and went in, the priest following.

John Thurston sat by the fire cutting clothes-pegs; Margaret was ironing clothes. Thurston rose when
he saw the priest, and both received him reverently.

Feeling that her best chance of escaping the priest was to proceed immediately, Rose drew Margaret
aside, and told her what her mother had said; but Margaret, who was rather fond of talking, had
something to say too, and the precious minutes slid by. Meanwhile the priest and Thurston went on
with their conversation: and at last Rose, saying she really could not stay any longer, bade them
good-bye, and went out. But just as Margaret was opening the door to let her out, Sir Thomas said a
few words in reply to Thurston, which Rose could not but overhear.

“Oh, Master Clere is a worthy man enough. If he hath gone somewhat astray in times past, that shall
now be amended. Mistress Cicely, too, is an honest woman that wist how to do her duty. All shall be
well there. I trust, John Thurston, that thou shalt show thyself as wise and well ruled as he.”

Rose heard no more. She passed out into the night, and ran nearly all the way home.

“Why, Rose, how breathless art thou, maid!” said the other when she came in.

“Well I may, Mother!” cried Rose. “There is evil ahead for us, and that not a little. Father Tye
overtook me as I came back, and would know of me why we had not been to mass these eight
Sundays; and I staved him off, and prayed him to ask of you. And, Mother, he saith Master Clere the
draper, though he have gone somewhat astray, is now returned to his duty, and you wot what that
meaneth. And I am feared for us, and Bessy too.”

“The good Lord have mercy on us!” said Alice Mount.

“Amen!” responded W illiam Mount gravely. “But it had best be such mercy as He will, Alice, not such
as we would. On one matter I am resolved—I will sign no more submissions. I fear we have done it
once too often.”

“O Father, I’m so fain to hear you say it!” cried Rose.

“Art thou so, daughter?” he answered a little sadly. “Have a care thy quick tongue bring thee not into
more trouble than need be. Child, to refuse that submission may mean a fiery death. And we may not
—we must not—shrink from facing death for Him who passed through death for us. Lord, grant us Thy
grace to stand true!”

And W illiam Mount stood up with uncovered head, and looked up, as we all do instinctively when we
speak to Him who dwelleth in the heavens.

“Who hath abolished death!” was the soft response of Alice.

Chapter Six.

Rose asks a Favour.

“You’ll not find no better, search all Colchester through!” said Mrs Clere, to a fat woman who did not
look particularly amiable, holding up some worsted florence, drab with a red stripe.

“Well, I’m not so sure,” replied the cross-looking customer. “Tomkins, now, in Wye Street, they
showed me some Kendal frieze thicker nor that, and a halfpenny less by the yard.”

“Tomkins!” said Mrs Clere, in a tone not at all flattering to the despised Tomkins. “W hy, if that man
knows a Kendal frieze from a piece of black satin, it’s all you can look for. Never bred up to the
business, he wasn’t. And his wife’s a poor good-for-nought that wouldn’t know which end of the
broom to sweep with, and his daughters idle, gossiping hussies that’ll drive their husbands wild one
o’ these days. Don’t talk to me about Tomkins!”

And Mrs Clere turned over the piece of florence as roughly as if it had been Tomkins instead of itself.

“It was right good frieze,” said the customer doubtfully.

“Then you’d better go and buy it,” snapped Mrs Clere, whom something seemed to have put out that
morning, for she was generally better-tempered than that.

“Well, but I’m not so sure,” repeated the customer. “It’s a good step to Wye Street, and I’ve lost a
bit o’ time already. If you’ll take tenpence the ell, you may cut me off twelve.”

“Tenpence the fiddlesticks!” said Mrs Clere, pushing the piece of worsted to one side. “I’ll not take a
farthing under the shilling, if you ask me while next week. You can just go to Tomkins, and if you
don’t find you’ve got to darn his worthless frieze afore you’ve done making it up, why, my name isn’t
Bridget Clere, that’s all. Now, Rose Allen, what’s wanting?”

“An’t please you, Mistress Clere, black serge for a girdle.”

“Suit yourself,” answered Mistress Clere, giving three pieces of serge, which were lying on the
counter, a push towards Rose. “Well, Audrey Wastborowe, what are you standing there for? Ben’t you
a-going to that Tomkins?”

“Well, nay, I don’t think I be, if you’ll let me have that stuff at elevenpence the ell. Come now, do
’ee, Mistress Clere!”

“I’m not to be coaxed, I tell you. Shilling an ell, and not a bit under.”

“Well! then I guess I shall be forced to pay it. But you’ll give me good measure?”

“I’ll give you as many ells as you give me shillings, and neither more nor less. Twelve? Very good.”

Mrs Clere measured off the florence, tied it up, received the twelve shillings, which Audrey drew from
her pocket as slowly as possible, perhaps fancying that Mrs Clere might relent, and threw it into the
till as if the coins were severely to blame for something. Audrey took up her purchase, and went out.

“W hatever’s come to Mistress Clere?” asked a young woman who stood next to Rose, waiting to be
served. “She and Audrey Wastborowe’s changed tempers this morrow.”

“Something’s vexed her,” said Rose. “I’m sorry, for I want to ask her a favour, when I’ve done my
business.”

“She’s not in a mood for favour-granting,” said the young woman. “That’s plain. You’d better let be
while she’s come round.”

“Nay, I can’t let be,” whispered Rose in answer.

“Now or never, is it? Well, I wish you well through it.”

Mistress Clere, who had been serving another customer with an ounce of thread—there were no reels
of thread in those days; it was only sold in skeins or large hanks—now came to Rose and the other
girl.

“Good-morrow, Gillian Mildmay! What’s wanting?”

“Good-morrow, Mistress Clere! My mother bade me ask if you had a fine marble cloth, about five
shillings the ell, for a bettermost gown for her.”

Mrs Clere spoke a little less crossly, but with a weary air.

“Marbled cloth’s not so much worn as it was,” she said; “but I have a fair piece that may serve your
turn. It’s more nor that, though. I couldn’t let it go under five and eightpence.”

“Mother’ll want it better cheap than that,” said Gillian. “I think that’ll not serve her, Mistress Clere.
But I want a pair of tawny sleeves, an’t like you, wrought with needlework.”

Sleeves, at this time, were not a part of the dress, but were buttoned in as the wearer chose to have
them. Gillian found these to suit her, paid for them, and went away. Mrs Clere turned to Rose.

“Now, then, do be hasteful, Rose Allen; I’m that weary!”

“You seem so in truth, Mistress Clere. I’m feared you’ve been overwrought,” said Rose, in a
sympathising tone.

“Overwrought? Ay, body and soul too,” answered Mrs Clere, softening a little in response to Rose’s
tone. “Well! folks know their own troubles best, I reckon, and it’s no good harrying other folks with
them. What priced serge would you have?”

“About eighteenpence, have you some?”

“One and eightpence; and one and fourpence. The one-and-fourpenny’s right good, you’ll find.”

“Thank you, I’ll take the one-and-fourpenny: it’ll be quite good enough for me. Well, I was going to
ask you a favour, Mistress Clere; but seeing you look so o’erwrought, I have no mind to it.”

“Oh, it’s all in the day’s work. What would you?” asked Mrs Clere, rather more graciously.

“Well, I scarce like to tell you; but I was meaning to ask you the kindness, if you’d give leave for
Bessy Foulkes to pass next saint’s day afternoon with us. If you could spare her, at least.”

“I can spare Bessy Foulkes uncommon well!” said Mrs Clere irascibly.

“W hy, Mistress Clere! Has Bessy—” Rose began in an astonished tone. Mrs Clere’s servant, Elizabeth
Foulkes, was her dearest friend.

“You’d best give Mistress Elizabeth Foulkes the go by, Rose Allen. She’s a cantankerous, ill-beseen
hussy, and no good company for you. She’ll learn you to do as ill as herself, if you look not out.”

“But what has Bessy done?”

“Gone into school-keeping,” said Mrs Clere sarcastically. “Expects her betters to go and learn their
hornbook of her. Set herself up to tell all the world their duty, and knows it a sight better than they
do. That’s what Mistress Elizabeth’s done and doing. Ungrateful hussy!”

“I couldn’t have thought it!” said Rose, in a tone of great surprise, mixed with disappointment.
“Bessy’s always been so good a maid—”

“Good! don’t I tell you she’s better than every body else? Tell you what, Rose Allen, being good’s all
very well, but for a young maid to stick herself up to be better than her neighbours ’ll never pay. I
don’t hold with such doings. If Bess’d be content to be the best cook, or the best cleaner, in
Colchester, I’d never say nought to her; but she’s not content; she’d fain be the best priest and the
best school-master too. And that isn’t her work, preaching isn’t; dressing meat and scouring pans and
making beds is what she’s called to, and not lecturing folks at Market Cross.”

“Has Bessy been preaching at the Market Cross?” asked Rose in genuine horror, for she took Mrs
Clere’s statements literally.

“That’s not while to-morrow,” said Mrs Clere in the same sarcastic tone. “She’s giving the lecture at
home first, to get perfect. I promise you I’m just harried out of my life, what with one thing and
another!”

“Well, I’d like to speak with Bessy, if I might,” said Rose in some perplexity. “We’ve always been
friends, Bessy and me; and maybe she’d listen to me—or, any ways, to Mother. Could you kindly give
leave for her to come, Mistress Clere?”

“You may have her, and keep her, for all the good she is to me,” answered the clothier’s wife, moving
away. “Mind she doesn’t give you the malady, Rose Allen: that’s all I say! It’s a fair infection going
about, and the great doctors up to London ’ll have to come down and look...